


Fever Dream

by battle_cat



Series: Fury Road Ficlets [3]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Delirium, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 20:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5348231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battle_cat/pseuds/battle_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Days are swallowed in a haze of fever. Five, seven, ten? Impossible to tell. Every breath is a slice of pain in her side, as if the smeg who stabbed her with her own knife wants her to remember it every moment she fights to live. The pain chases her into her sleep, filling her dreams with screams and amputations and people being stolen.</p><p>Women drift in and out of her room: Janey, Capable, Toast. But hands and faces and voices seem detached from each other, interchangeable, floating.</p><p>And then there’s a time when she wakes and he is there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever Dream

Days are swallowed in a haze of fever. Five, seven, ten? Impossible to tell. Every breath is a slice of pain in her side, as if the smeg who stabbed her with her own knife wants her to remember it every moment she fights to live. The pain chases her into her sleep, filling her dreams with screams and amputations and people being stolen.

Women drift in and out of her room: Janey, Capable, Toast. But hands and faces and voices seem detached from each other, interchangeable, floating.

And then there’s a time when she wakes and he is there.

She claws her way out of another terrible dream to feel his hands cup her face, so gently, his thumb rubbing small soothing motions against the back of her skull. “Hey,” he says when she opens her eyes.

“You came back,” she whispers, and he just smiles.

There seems always to be at least one person in the room, keeping watch, but suddenly it’s empty but for the two of them.

He slides carefully into the bed next to her, propped up on an elbow, still in his jacket and boots. As he does it she realizes this is exactly what she wanted him to do. 

His fingers trace over her face, the ridge of her brow and the plane of her cheek and the line of her nose, as if he intends to memorize the shapes. His thumb runs along the curve of her bottom lip and she catches it with her mouth, just briefly, sees a little twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips.

When his lips meet hers they are soft and wet and warm. He tastes like the wasteland, sand and salt and a breath of desert wind as she opens her mouth to him. His hand slides under her jaw, easing her face toward him, and the shivers that run through her have nothing to do with fever.

She can’t feel the fever at all, in fact.

He slides down the thin sheet that’s covering her and she’s naked underneath, save for the bandage across her ribs and a bit of cloth wound around her hips like an infant. But she isn’t scared; it doesn’t feel like vulnerability with him. She wants him to see.

His mouth is on her shoulder, on her collarbone, on the skin between her breasts, a slow press of soft wet heat each time, and his fingers trace shimmery lines over her skin that swirl and pool in her belly, and each time she inhales his desert scent the pain in her ribs seems to retreat a tiny degree.

He puts his hand over the wound and the pain vanishes.

He unwinds the bandage around her middle, and she lets him, and when he removes it she sees the skin underneath is smooth, nothing left but the silver trace of a scar. He brushes a finger over it.

“See? Healed.”

He puts his mouth to her side and drags his tongue along the length of the scar.

She gasps and arches, because it stirs something in her she didn’t expect, a sudden shivery pulse between her legs, and she wants more of it.

A warm hand is on her breast, and his mouth tracks down, a trail of teasing little puckers across her stomach, and her hips rock. 

And then his mouth is on her lower belly and his hot tongue slides over the ridge of her hipbone and she breathes out, “Max…”

“Furiosa.”

A soft voice, sounding from very far away. A woman’s voice.

“Furiosa.”

It is Capable’s voice.

And she wakes for real, dragged up into the world of aches and bruises and the too-familiar lance in her side, and the leaden weight of exhaustion, as if she’d run all day under the wasteland sun.

She doesn’t want to open her eyes.

There’s a gentle hand on her forehead, but it’s wrinkled knuckles and paper-soft skin this time.

“Fever’s broken,” Janey says. “That’s good, child.” A cool cloth presses against her skin, wiping face, neck, chest. She realizes the nakedness was real; they must have stripped off her clothes as she burned with fever.

She’s slick and wet between her legs. That was real too.

She drags open her eyes, slowly. Capable and Toast’s faces swim into focus above her.

Janey hands Capable a bowl of something. “See if she’ll take a bit of this. I’ll be back with fresh bandages.”

Capable looks down at her with a strange expression on her face, sweet with a bit of sadness underneath.

“What?” Furiosa croaks. Her mouth feels like she swallowed sand.

“You said his name.” The happy-sad smile twitches as she helps Furiosa ease up to drink from the bowl.

“Kinda moaned it, actually,” Toast adds.

Oh.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [my Tumblr](http://fuckyeahisawthat.tumblr.com/post/134502923865/semi-nsfw-ask-meme-max-and-furiosa-19-i-really).


End file.
